


Demons

by becausenobreeches (crucibulis)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bestiality if you squint, Blood Kink, Blood Magic, Come Swallowing, Crying, Dark!Dorian, Dehumanization, Demon Sex, Demonic Possession, Forced Bonding, Forced Orgasm, Gags, Group Sex, Kilts, Knifeplay, M/M, Master/Slave, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Psychic Bond, Rape Fantasy, Ritual Public Sex, Rope Bondage, Rough Sex, Sex Magic, Snakes, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 09:08:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3804772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crucibulis/pseuds/becausenobreeches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Pray tell, what is the Herald's deepest, darkest fantasy?”<br/>“Oh,” Landon’s laugh is more nervous now. “I don’t know. I don’t want to scare you off.”<br/>Dorian snorts at this. “Oh, please. Ten royals says you don’t say anything that shocks me--”<br/>“Make it twenty,” Landon answers without missing a beat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Demons

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE take heed of the tags. This fic is very graphic.

Landon buries his face in the arch of Dorian’s back, smearing lips across his spine as the mage hangs his head low and recovers with heaving breaths. Dorian’s internal muscles shift around his cock, waves of aftershocks that make him groan, overstimulated, but even so, he doesn’t want to pull out yet. Not when he feels so warm and at home here, skin and muscles singing with a sex-induced high.

He doesn’t move until he feels Dorian’s legs tremble, threatening to collapse under Landon’s weight, back bowing to shift his balance. So he pulls out slow, soothing his lover with a kiss on the ridge of his ear when a moan escapes his throat. Falls to the mattress, coaxing Dorian down to him as he appraises his disheveled state, sweat sticking his hair up in splayed spikes, mouth perpetually open in a stunned sort of sigh. Silent, even if Dorian's cries of pleasure are still echoing through Landon's mind.

“Void take you,” Dorian growls at him once his head hits the pillow, but his eyes are sparkling in the dark, rough diamonds in ruined kohl.  

Landon just turns his head to the ceiling and lets out an ugly laugh, giddy with it. He’s trembling from the exertion, post-orgasmic buzz sinking into his bones.

He has recently discovered the exact pitch of his voice that drives Dorian crazy, so when he growls a string of dirty thoughts right into the base of his neck, it vibrates his bones and makes Dorian shake, violent and uncontrollable as Landon holds him in place and fucks him with purposeful strokes. It's Landon’s new favorite thing.

“Herald of Andraste,” Dorian pants. “My _arse.”_

“We’re acquainted, actually,” Landon retorts, and then cackles as Dorian makes a disgusted noise.  

“If only the faithful knew how _wicked_ you were,” Dorian hisses at him, or maybe purrs, shifting closer to him to settle beneath Landon’s arm.

Landon grunts in amusement, even if his chest is tightening a little with guilt. “I don’t think _you_ know how wicked I am,” he chuckles, and shudders under the weight of everything Dorian doesn’t know.

“Well that’s easily remedied,” his lover drawls, long middle finger drawing a line down Landon's sternum. “Pray tell, whatis the Herald's deepest, darkest fantasy?”

“Oh,” Landon’s laugh is more nervous now. “I don’t know. I don’t want to scare you off.”

Dorian snorts at this. “Oh, _please._ Ten royals says you don’t say anything that shocks me--”

“Make it twenty,” Landon answers without missing a beat.

Dorian considers this with an intrigued little song in the back of his throat, lips pressed together in an impressed frown. “Confident in our depravity, are we?” he says around a smirk as he sits up and crosses his legs. “Fine, I’ll take that bet. I win either way."

Landon looks at him with a heavy, conceding sigh, and pushes up so he's sitting against the headboard, making himself comfortable amongst the pillows. “Alright. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

* * *

Stumbling in the dark, hands bound behind him, gagged with a black cloth over his eyes so he can neither see nor speak, he has no choice but to go where his captors lead. Their footsteps echo against the stone, and he can feel that the air is cooler and damper as they descend, perhap a cave or a dungeon. His foot trips over the masonry and he almost falls: a dungeon then. Hands haul him back up and drag him along, their pace just a bit too fast for him to meet.

He reaches out with his other senses, anything to try and get his bearings. The air smells or maybe feels different here; sometimes with magic it’s hard to tell. Or it’s almost like the absence of magic, as if the place has been cleansed of any ambient enchantments or spells. The bareness of it is even more pronounced when two strong sets of hands divest him of all his clothing, cutting away when they don’t feel like dealing with straps or buttons. Then he is shoved onto his knees, and he lets out a muffled groan into the gag as the skin throbs and begins to bruise. Someone spreads his thighs apart, while another behind him ties his ankles together with rope. He tests the bonds on his wrists discreetly, as he has many times since his capture, and still finds them holding strong.

They make him kneel there for a small eternity, speaking to each other just out of the range of hearing, voices muddied by echoes against the walls. He strains to hear over his pounding heart, head jerking at each unexpected noise in his adrenaline-fueled and fearful state, listening for anything that might clue him in to where he is, or what they want with him. There is only one voice he recognizes, maintaining its usual cheerful ring despite the circumstance of having a man bound and gagged nearby on the floor. Dorian's hushed but excited tones flit around the room like some sort of evil butterfly, checking in with several other voices before everything goes still.

Landon steels himself. Whatever happens, he will fight. He will wait for an opening, and then he will rain down fire on their treacherous heads.

One treacherous head in particular.

When the blindfold comes off, the first thing he sees are two Venatori kneeling in front of him, faces completely hidden by silver masks. Behind them are four more mages, six in all. Dorian stands front and center, and interestingly enough from his lack of clothing, he appears to be distinguished from the rest as the one in charge. He is barefoot, and wears a black leather kilt that sits below his hips and falls to his ankles. Chest bare, his eyes are hidden under a dark hood, but a familiar mustache and smirk give him away.

Landon makes a frustrated noise against the gag, as his heart tries to leap out of his ribs to escape the sorrow and betrayal, and _betrayal_ as his own eyes appreciate Dorian's form. Even now he looks wickedly gorgeous, and Landon promised himself that he would fight, but now he only fights to tear his eyes away.

The two mages kneeling in front of Landon sit perfectly still, hands in their laps. They don’t look at him, eyes in a state of rest as if waiting for instructions. An ornate silver goblet sits between Landon's naked legs, holding a potion the color of sweet red wine. A cloth roll full of instruments has been flattened out in front of each of the cultists, and Landon’s stomach swoops in fear at the sight. What are they going to do with _those?_

Shaking, he startles and jerks his head up as he sees Dorian take a step toward him, and then another, until he is standing in between the two kneeling assistants. Drawing on magic, Dorian hunches his back and hangs his arms forward, wrists and elbows above his lowered head, as if they were held up by strings. Then he drops his hands and directs it into the stone, placing a wide runic circle around the four of them, symbols and swirls pulsing a fiery red. Landon feels the effect of the magic immediately, the way it decimates the defenses of his body and his mind and maybe even his soul.

Dorian looks behind him, to a cultist whose face is also hooded, kneeling to the side with a tome in his lap. Dorian regards him with a small nod of his head, then he pads around Landon and kneels behind him, as the cultist begins to chant. Some sort of litany in Ancient Tevene presses at Landon's heart, heavy dark and danger and deceivingly deadly calm, like black, scalding smoke from an invisible fire. Every syllable of the language is lilting, lingering on the chanter’s tongue as if he’s tasting of something sinfully delicious.

For a moment the only sounds in the dungeon are Landon’s panicked breathing and the cultist’s chant, and he fights not to let the words sink into his mind. He wriggles against his bonds. Two mages outside the circle draw daggers, and he watches in horror as they cut their palms open, and then draw upon the blood and the Fade to channel magic right into his body. Dual and complementary spells, one completely paralyzes him from the neck down. The other intensifies the sensitivity of his nerves, so that everything they do to him will feel brighter and bolder. Dorian's breathing becomes perceptible on his neck.

The two kneeling cultists then go to work, pulling scalpels out of their tool kit and bringing them up to the skin beneath his collarbone. He whimpers as the blades make tiny, exacting cuts in his skin, drawing runes that barely seep blood. It should hurt, but there is powerful magic at play here that turns half the pain into pleasure.

Why would they want him to enjoy this? Wracking his brain for an explanation, Landon's pulse is as rapid as a hare being hunted by a --

He is distracted from the pleasure/pain by the weight of something cold and scaly being draped across his shoulders.

\-- Snake. Fuck. Dorian has a snake.

Making a muffled cry of distress, Landon pushes against the paralyzing magic with all his might, but it's only made stronger by the blood they’re drawing from his skin. Not a single muscle moves, except to let him turn his head and watch what they’re doing to him.

The snake is wrapping itself around Landon, skin dry and slick and textured, tickling him and making his paralyzed spine want to writhe. The serpent loops around his neck, threatening to cut off his air, while most of its length drapes down his back and twists around his waist. Its tail curls around the base of his cock, constricting a little, and that's how Landon finds out he's gotten hard.

Unaffected by his whimpers of fear and forced arousal, the mages continue carrying out their task, carving runes into his arms now. He doesn't recognize many of the symbols, but then his eyes land on one he wishes he didn't: the rune for binding. Panicking once more, he cranes his neck to look at Dorian, but a strong hand grabs his hair and turns his head back around, metal rings digging into his skull.

Mirroring each others' movements, every one that the cultists make is so precise, procedural… practiced past the point of art, to the point of _ritual_. There is the infrequent, conversational whisper about their work, but no one in the room acknowledges Landon, even so much as to look him in the eye, or to tease the mighty Inquisitor for his helpless predicament, though he seems to be the center of the proceedings. It might be this that unnerves him the most.

One last rune is carved into the skin between his navel and the base of his cock, and by then Landon is painfully hard. The snake's tail is still wrapped around his now-leaking cock, only giving him the faintest amount of infuriating friction. The chanter is still intoning a litany that makes the bleeding runes sing sensation into Landon's skin, which is sticky and warm with his own drying blood.

All of that is eclipsed when a slick finger suddenly slips into the crevice of his ass, and Landon chokes against the gag. Dorian's finger gently prods at his entrance, teasing at the ring of muscle, drawing this out because Landon can't fight, or perhaps Landon can't fight because Dorian’s ritual requires him to draw this out. The finger pulls back and presses hard into his perineum, and he whimpers again. Then the finger is back at his entrance and pushing inside.

Dorian is met with some resistance, but a single word in Tevene, barely more than a murmur against the base of his neck, and Landon feels himself relax around the invading digit, eyes shooting wide open at the power Dorian has over him as much as the treacherously delicious stretch. Dorian lets out a pleased hum, and even that sends another electric twitch to Landon's cock.

Another unintelligible murmur from Dorian, and the two cultists join in. Suddenly their hands are everywhere, his cock, his nipples, his stomach, his thighs, his balls... though they are careful not to disturb their runes. Somewhere along the way Dorian adds a second finger, curling both digits until he finds a spot inside Landon that makes him howl against the gag. He tucks his head down and shuts his eyes tight, trying to brace himself, and wonders with heavy breaths if it's possible to die from pleasure.

When he opens his eyes, he sees that one of the cultists has picked up the silver goblet and is holding it right under the head of his cock, which is thick and dark now with arousal and being worked by a darker gloved hand. He jerks his head up and locks eyes with the cultist, realizing what they intend. The masked man looks back at him, watching as Landon begins to unravel under the stimulation of so many hands.

Landon's skin burns in a deep blush that goes from his chest all the way up to his ears. He can't tear his eyes away from the eyes behind the mask. The man is watching him, and clearly likes what he sees, drinking it in hungrily. The snake is constricting around his throat and cock, an alarmingly comforting presence. Dorian is fucking him with long fingers, mercilessly kneading into his prostate. It's inevitable. He's going to come into the goblet and then Maker knows what will happen then.

The hands become more insistent and rhythmic, though every touch remains precise, designed to cause him the most pleasure/pain. Sometimes a feather-light brush of finger, sometimes a scrape of nails, sometimes a pinch of skin, sometimes a squeeze of muscle. Almost grateful for the spells that keep most of him frozen, Landon knows he would be fucking back onto Dorian's fingers now if he were capable. Even so, his head falls back, and he finds himself wordlessly pleading through the thick cloth in his mouth, drowning out the chanter’s recitations from his own ears. He's not exactly sure who he's praying to... perhaps to the Maker and Andraste to save him. Perhaps to his captors to cease their torment, but it sounds more like _more... more, no please don't stop, never ever stop, I might die if you stop._ Either way, soon his muffled words devolve into nothing more than desperate, broken, helpless cries as his orgasm overtakes him, and he clenches around Dorian's fingers as he spills his seed into the goblet at last.

Breathing ragged and head hanging limp, Landon fights the tears that threaten to spill from his eyes. Maybe it's over now.

Almost as if reading his thoughts, Dorian spitefully digs his finger into Landon's sweet spot again, and Landon yelps and impossibly comes just a tiny bit more into the goblet.

The cultist with the hungry eyes pulls out another instrument and begins methodically stirring the potion, as Dorian extricates his fingers. The other cultist removes the snake from Landon's torso, taking it somewhere out of view.

Dorian appears in front of him then, speaking in interested but hushed tones to the cultist with the goblet, who removes the stirrer, and trades it for a calligraphy brush. The brush is dipped into the potion, and then the goblet is carefully handed to Dorian.

Landon's eyes frantically dart between the masked man, who paints one final glyph on his forehead, and Dorian, who is upending the goblet and draining it of the rest of it's contents. Swallowing the last of it, Dorian lets out a satisfied sigh and looks at Landon, licking his lips.

The mages finally release him from their paralyzing and sensitizing magics. The other cultist rises, bows to Dorian and leaves the circle. The chanter stops chanting.

The glyph on Landon's brow begins to burn.

Suddenly, he can feel something in the back of his mind, something crawling, slithering at the edge of his consciousness. Then it’s pushing, growling, fighting to come through, a Desire demon that is trying to possess him. Landon's body tremors like a keep under siege, battering ram at the gate, will crumbling like mortar into dust.

Dorian steps forward and stands over Landon, exerting his presence. Blinking away tears and practically foaming at the mouth, Landon fights the demon in his mind, desperately gritting his teeth into the gag to keep himself grounded, glaring up at Dorian with daggers in his eyes. Then Dorian raises his hand up, ringed fingers splayed, as if to reach for the mark on Landon’s brow, and Landon barely holds on. He’s sweating profusely now with the effort, hissing and shuddering his eyelids as the demon almost breaks through. Eyes becoming purple flame, Dorian mutters a spell in Tevene, and Landon _screams_ as the Desire demon rips through the Veil and possesses him with a great, bright, orgasmic burst of magic.

Tears evaporate. The gag and the rope bindings burst into flame and turn to ash. He is unhindered and unbound, except that he is controlled by the demon, and the demon is bound to Dorian’s will.

Dorian curls up a finger, and the demon lifts his head to meet his eyes, while Landon screams silently, trapped inside of his own mind. His eyes glow orange, the glyphs that were carved into his skin are glowing orange as well, his whole body humming with dark magic. Dorian says something wicked-sounding to the demon, and Landon’s cock instantly becomes hard again.  

The demon preens under Dorian’s ravenous attention, flexing Landon’s muscles as it smirks with Landon’s lips. Dorian reaches out and brushes a finger against those lips, tracing and testing as he opens the slit on the side of his kilt and begins lowering himself into Landon’s lap. The demon takes the finger into his mouth, and takes Dorian’s weight into his arms. Both Landon and the demon are surprised to discover: Dorian is naked under his kilt, soft skin and hard cock brushing up against him.

The man would have reacted with a shudder or a moan; the demon reacts by clamping down on the finger in his mouth.

 _“Chesa,”_ Dorian hisses, a word that translates to Landon as a repulsion of the demon’s will and an exertion of power and desire for comfort on Dorian’s part. The demon immediately lets go of the finger with a petulant look.

Satisfied, Dorian makes himself comfortable in Landon’s lap, content for the moment to revel in the enraptured way the abomination looks up at him. The mage arches his back with a little roll of his hips, rewarding them with an almost affectionate smile, and then leans in to press a kiss to the glyph on Landon's brow. The entirety of his skin becomes alight with intense pleasure, and a sound rips out of his throat that is not quite a growl and not quite a moan.

Caressing his hair, Dorian holds on by Landon’s neck, as he slowly starts to lower himself down to the floor. Sensing his intentions through their bond, the demon supports Dorian in his descent, and then kneels between the mage’s legs, pulling the kilt out of the way to expose Dorian’s sculpted thighs and rigid, pink-tipped cock, which is smacking up against his stomach. Landon silently curses him for being so desirable, even now. But if the demon concurs he chooses only to show it by shoving Landon's cock easily into Dorian, mind-fuckingly tight but already slicked and stretched for the grand event of the ritual, it would seem.

Landon has no idea what has happened to the other participants. Perhaps they’ve all left the room to give Dorian some privacy with his new pet. Perhaps they were all incinerated in the explosion that brought Desire into this world. Perhaps they’re all hiding in the dark recesses of the dungeon, watching the scene and taking care of their own desires. The demon remains utterly fixed on Dorian, however, and so Landon is unable to see or hardly think about anything else.

The demon fucks into Dorian, reveling in the scalding hot slide, unrelenting in his insatiable need to be deeper. He squeezes Landon's fingers into Dorian’s thighs until his knuckles are white. Finally the demon bottoms out, pulls out halfway and bottoms out again. Dorian looks like he’s just discovered time magic all over again, the expression on his face is so full of bliss and a smug sort of pride. The demon bares his teeth and hisses in agreement, causing Dorian’s face to fall with just a flicker of fear. _Serves him right,_ Landon thinks in the background. _Go ahead and scare him,_ he encourages the demon, wondering if the creature will listen at all.

He doesn’t. Instead Landon finds his hands are sliding over Dorian’s body, appreciating the soft skin of his chest, his throat, fingers threading into his hair. Dorian closes his eyes and melts into these touches, relaxing to take Landon’s cock in deeper, and moaning from deep in his throat so it almost sounds like a purr.

Once Dorian has adjusted, he gives the demon another command, and Landon roars and fucks into Dorian with all the demon’s other-worldly strength, snapping his hips and baring his teeth once more. Dorian is startled but soon gives into it, moaning wantonly as he squeezes his thighs tighter around Landon’s waist. The mage closes his eyes and throws his hands up over his head, giving the demon at least the semblance of complete control. All three of them know better.

The demon leans over Dorian, panting as he fucks him faster, hurtling towards the edge of pleasure. He’s practically breathing smoke with how close he is, but out of nowhere, Dorian hisses at him. _“Chesa.”_

The demon only flinches and wills itself not to come, prolonging things at Dorian’s command. Landon can feel the tension everywhere, he’s on the very fucking edge, balls drawn up tight with the need for release but he doesn’t, not yet. Instead the demon turns his attention towards bringing Dorian off, rolling a peaked nipple between Landon’s fingers, or wrapping one of Landon’s hands around the mage’s weeping cock. But Dorian’s cries of ecstasy are delicious, and almost enough to make the demon come, if he just fucks Dorian a little faster --

 _“Chesa.”_ Dorian growls, voice thick with arousal and dark as night. The demon hisses and grits his teeth and fights against it hard, but it’s barely enough. _“Chesa!”_ Dorian says a little louder, and claps a fiery hand against Landon’s shoulder, his eyes bright red and aflame with his fury. The demon howls at the heat, but apparently is quite fireproof, as Landon only suffers the slightest of burns, a glowing red like he's been out too long in the sun.

The demon is getting desperate now, and Landon observes with wonder as the creature tries to think of something to push Dorian over the edge. He’s not getting off until Dorian gets off, and he’ll make it happen, whatever it takes.

 _Maybe if you kissed him,_ Landon accidentally thinks, and then quickly chastises himself. But the demon's eyes glow with wicked glee and he takes him up on the idea, slowing down his pace to lean down and cover Dorian’s mouth with Landon’s, sliding a curling tongue between the mage’s gasping, surprised lips, Dorian's mustache tickling. A few more long thrusts and a hard squeeze to the head of his cock and Dorian is gone, eyes rolling back in his head as his whole body goes taut and then shudders and he comes all over his stomach, muscles pulsing around Landon’s cock.

 _“Domine,”_ the demon tries huskily, and Landon can feel the flames in the back of his throat; the demon is going to set something on fire if he doesn’t come now. Dorian ignores him.

 _“Domine. Miserere!”_ Landon hears a dark, warped version of his own voice plead. The demon is begging. Actually begging Dorian for release. Landon never thought he’d see the day.

The demon has slowed his thrusting, not willing to risk Dorian’s ire if he stops, but so close to coming that Landon’s whole body is trembling with it. Landon can feel it, how earth-shattering it’s going to be when it finally comes, and he is helpless to brace himself against it, the magnitude of his impending orgasm it's own kind of horror.

 _“Vieni,”_ Dorian mutters, and the word has barely fallen from his lips and the demon is roaring and shooting into Dorian with sharp, stuttering thrusts, erratic magic pulsing out of Landon’s body as the orgasm overtakes him and for a single, sacred moment there is no demon, there is no Landon, there is nothing, save only indescribable, bittersweet bliss.

The demon is spent and exhausted from the effort, and retreats into the back of Landon’s mind as he comes down from the terrifying high. The orange glow in his eyes subsides and then there is just Landon, naked and shivering with sweat, looking down into Dorian's kohl-lined eyes. He pulls out and kneels once more before the mage, Dorian too sex-sleepy to chase him, but Landon too exhausted to run. Besides, the demon may be dormant now, but the ritual is complete, and it was thorough, and Landon is bound to Dorian forever.

* * *

Dorian remains quiet as Landon describes the scene to him, carefully controlling his face so he only reacts with a twitch of mustache or a slight curve of eyebrow. Even once Landon is finished, he just sits and ponders until Landon grows nervous and finally breaks the silence.

"... So. What do you think?" he winces.

Dorian blinks at him, not answering right away. "I think I owe you twenty royals," he replies, but Landon knows Dorian well enough to sense there's a punchline hidden in there somewhere.

"What was it that shocked you?" he chuckles, giving him a lopsided grin.

"Eheh..." Wonder of wonders, Dorian looks uncertain for a moment, before he delivers his haughty retort. "Well _obviously_ it was your abominable understanding of spirit possession. Pun intended, of course." Landon falls back onto the bed and smacks his face with the palm of his hand, scrubbing at his eyes in embarrassment as much as amusement, as Dorian launches into one of his post-sex lectures. "Consider: if Varric's account is to be believed, which, _well,_ would be doubtful if not corroborated by other sources..."

**Author's Note:**

> becausenobreeches.tumblr.com
> 
> I have a deleted scene I might add to this in a couple days.


End file.
